Red Carpet
by DCFanatic4life
Summary: She's always distracting him, her presence haunts him, how can he make it through the night...Jericho/Stephanie


****Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or real people in this story. The characters are owned by WWE and the real people own themselves. This story is rated M for a reason, so if you're a kiddie, you should go read something else age appropriate because I don't want to be the one to corrupt you.****

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><p>AN: So this is a one-shot I did based on a picture from the premiere party during WrestleMania week where Stephanie was doing an interview and Chris was seen in the background. It's a smutty story so there's that and I just hope you enjoy what I wrote and if you want to leave a review, that would be wonderful and if you feel the need to be brutal, go right ahead, I can take it. :)

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><p>He could feel her presence before he could even see her.<p>

He knew she was going to be there, _of course_ she was going to be there.

He just didn't expect her to be so heart-stoppingly beautiful.

He was just talking one moment and the next he turned his head just slightly and there she was, beautiful and glowing and he couldn't even see her face. He just knew it. He just knew she was glowing and he stares for too long a moment before his attention diverts back to some question about how good it felt to do charity. He nods and gives the cursory answer before getting out of there as quickly as he can, but she is already gone, already inside.

His heart sinks just the tiniest bit. He can see her again, but _his_ hand is on the small of her back, leading her away from him. Something is always leading her away from him. It isn't fair, but it is life and so many times, too many times he's tried to walk away, just turn around and go elsewhere. It explained Fozzy. It explained Dancing with the Stars. Every one of those things that wasn't wrestling was him trying so desperately to walk away from her.

He kept saying the right things. _I'm burned out_. He wasn't. He was mentally strained because he wanted her so much and she just…wouldn't. _I want to focus on my band._ Wasn't that, didn't need it. What he needed was her and seeing her with her damn husband just was too much again. He'd vowed that it would be the last time. That he would not let her suck him back in, but her powers are much stronger than his will. So here he is again, three months into his third "tour of duty" and she is standing there and she couldn't be farther away if she tried.

He goes inside and his eyes almost involuntarily search for her. Would they always? They did that, as if independent of his brain, like they ran the show whenever the potential to see her was around. He does it at shows. He walks into Raw, and even if she isn't there, he looks around as if she is, as if she would pop out from behind a crate and say "surprise," and he'd smile. She doesn't show up often enough for his liking.

He does not equate her with needing to breathe; she is not more important than breath. She is not more important than food or water or even his kids, but she's important. He tried to make her more important and she turned him away, told him in no uncertain terms that her importance to him was not his importance to her. He could not begrudge her because the circumstances were not in their favor. Had they ever been?

He was already engaged when he met her.

He believed in the sanctity of his bond.

He was foolish.

If he were smart, he would have broken off his engagement, swept her off her feet and he would be the one leading her to her seat and whispering in her ear instead of standing here alone because his own wife could not possibly make the arduous hour flight from Tampa to Miami. That was just too much to ask that she be here. But that was just how things were between them now. He'd once thought…it didn't matter what he thought because it did not come to fruition. So he was alone, like he was at most events these days, looking what he could not have, longing for what for could not be.

He is seated two rows and three seats behind her. Just enough to where he can see her, but far enough away that staring isn't obvious. _He's_ still next to her, occasionally leaning over to talk to her, but she never turns her head towards him. He can almost see, in his mind's eye, her lips moving as she talks, staring straight ahead. He may be biased to the point of no return, but she always looks annoyed when she's around her husband. He wants, desperately, probably hopelessly, to think that she really is annoyed with him, with her choices, as annoyed as he is, but there's no way to tell.

He thinks he should probably watch what's going on, but he loses interest quickly. He's seen the divas wear a bevy of outfits and he doesn't need to see anymore. He gets up and goes to the area where the drinks are being served. He needs one right now and orders his usual, GG as he likes to call it. Sometimes his brain calls it SJ, Stephanie Juice, just enough to tinge the memories of her, but not enough to get him blinding drunk to where he calls her and acts like an idiot. He turns around to see if she's still sitting there and she is, looking, staring straight ahead.

He wills her to turn around and look at him.

She doesn't.

He takes another sip of his drink.

He mingles with the right people, sees his friend, James, but he is distracted, horribly so and he keeps glancing over at her, hoping she will look back at him, but she never does. Does she even know he is here? He isn't sure she does and he almost wants to walk in front of her so she'll know, just in case she doesn't. But she must. She runs this, she runs everything, she must know he's here, she knows he's at Raw every week and she doesn't show up there so what makes him think that she will suddenly see him again?

He looks down, he needs more vodka in this drink and more fuzziness to his thoughts. It's the only way to get through this evening where she looks so pretty and so inaccessible. Was that how men felt around her before she was married? Was she so unattainable they just stared? He's put her on a pedestal and he knows and he does not care that she had made her more than any other woman. There are so many beautiful women here tonight, but for him, she surpasses them all, sitting there, atop the throne he so erroneously put her on.

James asks if he's okay and he says he is. He has cameras following him for that damn diary for the website. He hopes they don't catch him looking over at her. He must be doing it at least three times per minute. They probably have too many pictures of him glancing off to the side. He wonders if the photographer can see what he's looking at, if the man understands of what he's snapping pictures.

He laughs a little at that. He must seem like a lovesick puppy right now if the photographer has gleaned onto what he keeps staring at. But hasn't he been lovesick since the moment he met her. Star-crossed is a word that's thrown about a lot by my people, so much so that it's lost most of its meaning, but if there were ever a word to describe what he feels they are, it's that one. They were destined to meet, he believes, they were fate. He cannot imagine his life never meeting her. The problem is that meeting her and being with her were never mutually exclusive. Instead, they were destined to meet and to live with their lines intersecting every so often.

He wanted her.

She wanted him.

Except never at the same time.

The night drags on and he feels constantly pulled in several directions. This is for charity so he wants to be there, be 100% there, engaged, charming, helping, but he feels as useless as he usually does when she's around. He goes where he is needed, talks to those who want to talk to him (never her though) and spies on her while he wanders around. People are genial, respectful, even nice, but her icy shoulder dampens his mood at every turn.

He drinks too much, but doesn't feel it. He feels only the pleasant buzz that comes from being drunk, where everything becomes soft around the edges and everyone starts looks better and better. Maybe, if he drinks enough, everyone can move up to her level, but then again, these alcohol glasses have made her even prettier and now there seems to be some kind of ethereal glow that follows her around. He decides he needs a breather and looks around, trying to find a place to catch a moment by himself.

There are soft curtains separating the area and he slips behind one, finding himself in a dark area, lit only by some residual light from a streetlamp 30 yards away. There's a fence there and he leans his back against it, bending over slightly and catching his breath. He doesn't feel nauseous, but he still wants to catch his breath. He stands up and breathes deeply, taking in the thick Miami air. It feels cooler out here, away from everyone, but still stifling because he knows he must go back inside and play the role perfectly. He doesn't feel like playing much anymore. He wishes to go to his hotel room and grab his notebook and write down lyrics so achingly sad they make anyone burst into tears.

Then the curtains flutter.

Someone steps through them.

It's her.

"Chris?" she whispers into the dark and he doesn't say anything at first because he's so sure the GG has given him hallucinations. How much _did_ he drink? She steps forward and her eyes must have adjusted to the darkness because she walks straight towards him and yes, she is real.

"Stephanie," he chokes out and she smiles at him, her lips curving up in the corners and damn it, even in this extremely dim light, she shines.

"I saw you slip in here and I wanted to make sure you were okay," she tells him, her hands cupping his cheeks as if to check his temperature. "I saw you keep going to the bar for refills. I'm suddenly cursing that open bar thing."

So she _has_ been watching him? It's so like them, never to catch the other one staring. "I'm okay."

"Why are you back here?" she wonders, her hands still cupping his cheeks and making him warmer than he has any business being.

"I needed some fresh air." She nods as if understanding and he looks at her, taking her in, her face, flanked by darkness, but he can still see a flush upon it. Her makeup seems smeared around her eyes, not like she's been crying, but just from the wear of the evening. Then his eyes scan down. "You look breathtaking."

She laughs lightly, her breasts heaving just a little bit, "Thank you." She always knows how to receive a compliment. "You look handsome yourself."

"I saw you."

"I saw you," she returns.

"You were with him," he says painfully.

"He's been annoying tonight," she tells him, rolling her eyes. His eyes are so adjusted to the dark right now that he can see her every expression and this one is not one of happiness, not in the slightest.

"What are we doing?" he asks, an open question he's been wondering for years. They dance around their feelings, words, so many words have passed between them and he's only ever kissed her outside of the ring one time.

That's it.

One time, just one time they broke.

He cherishes the memory.

She shrugs. "Same thing we've always been doing."

"Pretending," he answers for her, nodding his head. "Pretending that we like what we have when we don't. You know, you had your chance."

She did. She had her chance. She had her many chances. He was so willing, so willing to give up everything he'd built for one shot with her. She did not return the favor and so he went back, crawled back because there were no other options for him. She was the only option he wanted so why go for what he didn't want?

"I know," she nods because she does, they both do. They both know that on a night so different from this one, he pleaded. He nearly begged, but could not bring himself to go that far. Still, he pleaded and he asked and she left so little hope. "I wasn't ready."

"Are you ready now?" he has to ask it. He has know it. He hangs so much on the possibility of it…of them. It's unhealthy, but so was running and he still did that twice. How is it that a man could be so in love with a woman without ever knowing her intimately? He doesn't quite know, but he knows what he feels is something he can't describe, that's how much he feels it.

"I don't know," she answers truthfully and he knows this because of the sigh at the end of the sentence. He wants to kiss her though, so he does. He leans forward and he kisses her. Her lips are soft and pliant and he has nearly forgotten the way they curve. Only nearly though because her memory burns inside of him and scars deep.

She doesn't pull away and he doesn't expect her to do so. It's not a very involved kiss. Their only other kiss was much more involved, but this one has much more feeling behind it. He deepens it though, needing more of her and he gently places his hand on her waist, stepping up and straightening himself. She tilts her head slightly to give her silent assent and her hand is inside his suit jacket, snaking around, the fabric bunching as her hand rests on his lower back and she's pressing herself up against him.

He wants to moan, but that would require thought, thoughts he cannot process as he pulls her closer, flush against him. The silk of her dress is smooth to the touch and like a second skin almost. It makes it easier to pull her closer and he does so, like he wants to consume her and their mouths are opening and their tongues are meeting for only the second time and it's as if they missed each other the way they meet and tussle.

He wants more though.

No, he needs more.

He can't stop here.

He turns her around so she's pressed against the fence. This is not ideal, but it's here and it's now and he's afraid if he breaks away or suggests anything that this will be broken and she will slip through the curtain and away from him again. He doesn't care where they are, he cares that she's there with him and that's really all that matters to him. He'll go as far as she'll let him, and he hopes that it's far enough to satiate this feeling inside of him.

"I love you," he tells her. He's told her before so this is nothing new to her. He loves her without reservations. He says it without strings. He says it because he means it and she needs to know it.

"I know," she responds and it's not what he wants to hear, but he knows that she feels it and is scared to actually say it. It holds them back. It's been holding them back for years, but he still says it in the hopes that one day, she'll stop being afraid and she will say it back.

He ignores it and he goes back to kissing her, moving so his lips brush against her jaw. She tastes like powder so he moves to her neck. He can feel her fingers threading through his hair and the distant sounds of the party are drowning them out and he thanks his fellow employees for being their loud, drunken selves. They are unknowing accomplices to his scheme.

He moves his lips down to press against her cleavage and he tries to get the straps down on her dress, but it's so tight that they don't budge. He tries again, tugging lightly at the fabric and she laughs at him as he drifts his face back up to hers, giving her a look. "It won't be that easy to get to me."

"It should be," Chris tells her and he's not sure if he means more with those words, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"I wouldn't be me if it was," she leans forward and she kisses him lightly, trying to keep it brief, but he doesn't let it. He wants her and he doesn't care if he can't get her dress off. She squeaks when he's suddenly lifting her up by the ass, but her dress is not as short as he'd hoped and it only seems to lift her up into the air. He growls in frustration because she is so inaccessible and he's already semi-hard and he wants her so badly that he wants to rip off her dress.

He doesn't though, instead, he puts her down then kneels in front of her, pressing his right hand against her knee and then pressing his left hand against the other one. He slides his hands up, her dress moving up slowly. Stephanie's head is down, watching him intently, every once in a while glancing around and up to see if anyone is around, but the party is in full swing and nobody appears to be looking for them. Chris wants to ask her if this is okay, but her silence assures him that it is.

He finally stands back up, his hands on her upper thighs, fingers grazing against the sides of her lacy underwear, clinging tighter to her than even her dress. He gazes down at her almost bare bottom half, her legs that stretch, stretch, stretch and then her underwear-covered everything. He looks up at her and she's biting her lip and, again, he wants to ask if this is okay, but she nods before he can and his right hand moves over, pressing against the front of her panties and he can tell she's already getting wet from the tension.

This has been a long time coming.

Much too long.

Her hands reach for his belt.

Her fingers are fast and nimble and as he massages her through her underwear, she's disrobing his bottom half, unbuttoning the button now as the zipper flies down and her hand is reaching inside, then finding his boxers and he closes his eyes and freezes in pleasure. He lifts his eyes slightly, just slits really, to look at her. She has a dogged look of determination on her face that he finds endearing and he kisses her before he starts returning the favor. Her heat is warming him up to fever pitch.

They want no words, but she says them anyways, "I want you."

"I'm glad for that," he gently laughs at her, but then their laughter stops as their lust takes over. Chris pulls his fingers away from her and makes a show of sucking on them, making Stephanie's cheeks darken slightly before he pulls down her panties quickly. She pulls her hand away from him and he pulls down his boxers. She looks behind her to see how they can do this, but he already has her and he lifts up her legs as she pressed her back against the fence behind her.

Slowly they're joined, and Chris finds himself stilling for a second to take in the brevity of the moment. Stephanie runs her hands through his hair as he kisses her shoulder again then he must capture her lips. They kiss again and it's perfect. Everything in that moment is perfect. He cannot ask for more perfect than this.

The feeling of her is indescribable. He never wants this to end and he tries to go slow, but she's moving against him, like they've been doing this for years and he can't go slow when he wants her so much and he's wanted her for so long, just like this, always like this and when this is over…

He can't give her back.

He's not going to let her go back.

She is his now, forever and always.

It's over too soon as he pounds into her and she takes him all in over and over again. They are reduced to the occasional grunt and moan, but they are quiet. He wishes they could be loud, but they can't, not here, not now, but maybe someday, when the tides turn in their favor. He's so close and he wants her to climax at the same time. Their eyes lock until they are both at their peak when they crash their mouths into each other.

When they calm down, they continue to kiss in an almost chaste way, which is so contradictory to what just happened. When they finally pull away from each other, he's reaching into his jacket pocket to grab her a handkerchief to clean herself up with. She smiles at him gratefully while she turns to clean herself up a little. He pulls up his boxers, tucking himself back into them, before pulling his pants. He stuffs the handkerchief in her clutch before reaching down to pull up her panties. She turns to him and it's like neither one knows what to say.

Finally, after a long moment, she kisses him once more, "I love you too."

She said it.

She meant it.

He's not letting her go.


End file.
